The Tangled Strands of Fate
by MyBlueOblivion
Summary: "The future was not only his to observe, but also to command..." A farseer and his forces must fight for the soul of a Maiden World, against the might of the Alpha Legion


The Tangled Strands of Fate

Farseer Quilindras stood atop a high cliff, overlooking a wide, sweeping plain of blue-green grass. The twin suns of _Athar Barak-el_ were just beginning to rise, their pale, blue-white light glinting eerily from the veins of silicate and quartz that ran through the earth and up into the cliff-face. This place had a haunting, beautiful quality to it, almost surreal, like a place one might dream about on a calm summer's night. Quilindras shuddered slightly as he thought this, a rill of sorrow working its way through his mind. It would be a shame for this place to be sullied by something so crude as war; more than a shame, in point of fact. But war was coming. It could not be stopped now.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, savouring the delicate scent of the nightblossom on the wind, the farseer closed his eyes, and opened his mind to the skein. The endless strands of the future opened up before him, his to read and interpret; a thousand paths for each possible future, a thousand and more futures for each possible action. Most of the strands he concentrated on were dark, futures that were past the point of being viable. Others were brighter, still active, and it was these that Quilindras began to concentrate on.

In the material world, the farseer's eyes drifted open, alight with eldritch corposant, seeing not the world but it's futures. Reaching into a small pouch tied to his belt, Quilindras drew out a handful of runes, small wraithbone tokens tied to his psyche, some predictive, others protective. He opened his hand, and after a moment they drifted upward, beginning to orbit the farseer in wide, lazy circles, an orrery of possibilities. Spreading his arms, opening his mind to the full power of the seer's path, Quilindras himself began to drift upward, floating upon etheric winds.

The future was not only his to observe, but also to command. War was coming to _Athar Barak-el_, brought by the followers of the Ruinous Powers; that he could not change. But he could, and would, make them pay for that error. And pay they would, with their very lives...

O

The sounds of war surrounded Sirillien and his squad, loud, cacophonous, and beautiful in its own way. It sang through his veins, coursed through his entire being; fuelled by his own hatred for the mon-keigh, and amplified by the presence of Biel-Tan's Avatar waging his own war nearby, Sirillien felt nigh unstoppable. His squad felt the same, he could tell, so attuned was he to their moods and posture. Together, a single, unified whole, there was no foe they could not face.

The latest wave of the enemy was approaching, an unkempt and poorly organised rabble herded forward by a squad of their more heavily armoured masters. Sirillien watched with growing distaste as the cultists began to pick up their pace, howling through raw throats to their dark Gods, either in supplication or adoration; he could not tell, nor did he care. Standing tall, his dark blue armour iridescent in the wan morning light, he raised his left hand and the shuriken pistol mounted on his gauntlet. In his right hand, his diresword rested easily upon his shoulder, ready for battle. As the enemy closed, entering optimum range, he touched upon the minds of his squad with a brief, simple desire: utter destruction of the foe.

They opened fire as one, the air filling with screaming monomolecular blades, as the Dire Avengers' bladestorm cut down the cultists like wheat. Most of their number were cut to bloodied ribbons, dropping to the ground with shuriken protruding from their faces, throats and chests, a fine red mist filling the air as they did so. The remaining few faltered in their charge, wounded to a man and suddenly unnerved. Not waiting for the enemy to rally, the Shrine of the Crystal Shard surged forward, Sirillien at their head. The humans never stood a chance.

O

Morthaniel and his Fire Dragons surged from the back of their Wave Serpent, weapons at the ready. As soon as the last aspect warrior cleared the ramp, the hatch swung fluidly upward, and the graceful craft hurtled skyward, it's paired bright lances sending death toward the enemy as it did so. Urging his squad forward with an uplifting cry, the Vorpal Lance charged up and over the embankment, toward the flank of the enemy armoured division.

Three squat, slab-sided vehicles, which appeared to consist mostly of a single massive siege-cannon on tracks, awaited them. Distracted by the sudden appearance and equally-sudden egress of the Wave Serpent, all three vehicles were tracking away from the Fire Dragons, completely oblivious to the greater danger they posed. Charging his firepike, feeling his squad acting in kind, Morthaniel sprinted forward to near point-blank range. In seconds, the first Vindicator was gone, reduced to a glowing heap of molten slag; mere moments later, the second had shared its fate. The third, aware of their sudden attack, was turning toward the squad, eager to avenge their brethren.

His body wreathed in a pale aura of lambent psychic flame, a high, clear challenge issuing from the speakers in his tall helm, Morthaniel charged forward, a melta bomb already primed in his left hand. His squad moved out of the line of fire, attempting to circle around the tank, but not he... as the siege weapon fired, thunderously deafening at such short-range, Morthaniel dropped to his knees and slid under the shot, propelled forward by his momentum. As the smoke cleared from the weapon's breach, and the crew inside frantically began loading a fresh shell, they heard an ominous clattering from inside the barrel of their own cannon. Too late, they realised that where they had missed, the melta bomb hadn't, expertly thrown by the still-living Exarch.

An almost feral smile crossing his features, Morthaniel watched as the panicked escape attempts of the tank's crew were abruptly and explosively curtailed. Today was turning out to be a fine day indeed...

O

The mon-keigh had believed themselves safe.

A squad of six Chaos Marines, wearing heavy, blue-green armour that bore a stylised hydra emblem, had attempted to outflank the eldar forces. They had manoeuvred around the edges of the warhost, creeping through the tall grasses toward the rearguard positions of the eldar battle line. In front of them, apparently unaware of their approach, stood the warhost's guardian contingent, their starcannon platform providing long range support to the forward elements. Behind and above them, stark against the skyline, stood the grim silhouettes of the Dark Reapers. The Chaos Marines hadn't been seen; no warning cry had gone up, and so they believed themselves safe.

As the marines broke from cover, their augmented musculature and powered armour lending them terrifying speed for creatures of their size, the empty space in front of them suddenly ceased to be empty. With a burst of light, and a haunting gasp of displaced air, five Warp Spiders stepped from the aether, death spinners at the ready. At their head, Exarch Arahayne, called the Voidweaver, gave the order to fire, and before the marines had got more than a handful of paces from their hiding place the air was filled with a fine mist of monofilament webbing.

Half of the marines fell, as the cloud of razor-sharp mesh cut through armour, weapons and limbs with sickening speed. The marines who had brought up the rear barely checked their advance, though, instead redirecting their charge against the Spiders. Arahayne spread his powerbladed arms wide, his mechanical death spinner mounts withdrawing against the carapace of his jump generator, and took up a battle ready stance. As the lead marine closed on him, chainsword screaming toward the eldar's helm-less head, Arahayne disappeared.

The Chaos Marine abruptly fell forward, unable to stop as his right leg disappeared below the knee. Crouched behind him, Arahayne spun, bringing his right powerblade up and around. In a burst of sickly light, he disappeared mid spin, finishing the manoeuvre inside the guard of the second marine, his powerblade embedded in the warrior's chest. The third died an instant later, as the remainder of Arahayne's squad opened fire, their death spinners finding weak points in his armour.

Arahayne watched the warrior's demise, something like remorse in his eyes, if only for a few moments. Looking upward, his gaze met with the grim visage of Barathaen, the Exarch of the Dark Reapers. There he found the cold clarity he needed, a reminder of what they fought for, and the justness of that cause.

"Come, my brothers," Arahayne said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper as he looked back out over the battlefield, "come, sister. There are many more that need to meet their doom. We are it's instrument, and we must not falter..."

O

Barathaen watched with cool detatchment as Arahayne and his Warp Spiders jumped back into the Warp. Turning his gaze back to the battlefield, cold and implaccable as the grave, he searched for his next target, his next victim. Around him, Barathaen's squad prepared themselves and their weapons, their thoughts dark and brooding, filled with the menacing tally they would soon reap. In his hands, his missile launcher _Wraithsong_ hummed almost patiently to itself, feeling almost alive; Barathaen sometimes fancied that the weapon revelled in its work, almost as much as he did himself.

A new target presented itself; one of the mon-keigh transports, lumpen and brutish though it was, was in danger of outflanking Sirillien's Avengers. As one, the Shrine of the Silent Harvest trained their weapons, picking out weak points in its tracks and armoured shell, their armour's senses merging with their own, their eyes seeing as though through their weapons. They waited, waited for the perfect moment, and were rewarded as a few seconds later the vehicle slewed to a halt in a cloud of dirt and debris, its boarding ramp dropping rapidly to disgorge its maniacally chanting cargo.

They were already dead. The mon-keigh were simply too stupid to admit defeat, lay down and die. Raising _Wraithsong_, Barathaen checked his aim once more with practiced ease, then uttered a simple phrase, in equal parts a command to fire and his personal motto.

"Ours is the fury..."

O

Quilindras opened his eyes once more, as his scrying ended, and his body returned to the ground. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt life returning to his limbs, felt the crystalising process that overtook his body beginning to slow, then reverse. Though he hoped it would one day be his fate, there was still far too much to be done before he joined the Dome of Crystal Seers. There were too many battles to be fought, too many paths to tread. The sweet silence of the Infinity Circuit would have to wait.

A large shadow fell upon him, and Quilindras looked up, a little surprised to find that he had been joined by the wraithlord that accompanied his host; it was testament, he felt, to just how tired the scrying had left him. Taylindral, called in life the Harbinger of the Storm, looked down upon him, his wraithsight regarding the farseer in ways that Quilindras could not quite comprehend. Something about the wraithlord's posture told him that his oldest friend brought bad news.

"How has your farseeing fared?" the ancient ghost warrior asked, the voice projecting into Quilindras' mind resonating with power.

"It has fared as well as we can ever hope," Quilindras replied, his voice thoughtful. He took on a questioning stance, respectful but authoritative. "What news do you bring me, old friend?"

"The mon-keigh approach," Taylindral replied, his voice becoming deep with growing anger. "Death comes to this place. Tell me, seer, will we win? Do you believe there is hope?"

"No, I do not believe," the farseer said, as he strode past the wraithlord, heading to the webway portal that connected _Athar Barak-el_ to Biel-Tan. "I have seen the futures, and I do not _believe_, old friend.

"I _know_ we can win... And I know how we must do so..."

* * *

Author's Notes: It's been a while since I last posted anything on FFNet, so I thought I'd get myself back into the swing of things by posting a few little pieces here. This story, and its cousins "A Blade In The Night" and "The Sands of Time", were written as competition entries for "Best Background" at Games Workshop 'Invasion' and 'Throne of Skulls' events... I enjoyed writing them, and building a set of backgrounds and characters for my growing Eldar army. Here's hoping someone here enjoys them too. All thoughts welcome!


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